Bamford, God of War
by Gardenaire
Summary: There was only one thing Barnabilius B. Bamford ever wanted in his life. It wasn't money. It wasn't women. It wasn't even justice. It was power, in any shape or form. What better way to obtain power than becoming the God of War?
1. Prologue

Bamford, God of War

Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd or God of War

Prologue:

Barnabilius B. Bamford was born in 1795, to a moderately wealthy yet abusive family in the slums of Liverpool. He had no friends or toys to play with, only his grandfather, who told him stories of the ancient mythologies. Young Bamford became particularly infatuated with the Greek tales, specifically the mighty gods who lived upon the crest of Olympus and wreaked havoc on the lesser mortals. Unfortunately, his grandfather passed away when he was a mere child of nine. Ever since that fateful funeral, he has vowed to obtain power at any cost, as the great Greek pantheon had once obtained from their Titan fathers. Forty-two years have passed since then, and Bamford is now the beadle of the royal courts section at the heart of London. Despite his most honorable position, he quickly became the subservient lackey to a greater power, a judge of the law by the name of Turpin, forced to perform despicable and degrading tasks for a man of supposed integrity. While he did enjoy lording over the weak and the innocent with vicious police officers at his command, Bamford secretly loathed his superior. However, he did as he was told without question, for with the detestable requests, came the everlasting power he had always dreamed of having. Sadly, it was not enough. The beadle was addicted to the constant helpings of power he had been continuously fed for years now. Bamford craved it as a man in the desert craved water. Little did he know he would soon have more power than any mortal had ever experienced…


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

Setting: London, 1846

His plump and calloused hands pushed aside the red velvet curtains, allowing a peak of silvery light to penetrate the glass window. The airy fog of the outside realm was thick in texture this morning, thought Beadle Bamford. It would provide an exquisite cover for a jolly evening of battering the less fortunate with his expensive mechanical cane. The perfect activity to exercise the precious power he'd obtained over the years from tireless toil and boot-licking.

He often told himself that one day, he would rise above all others who presumed to lord over him, even the wretched Judge Turpin, his temporary master. This personage of a man maintained the illusionary aspect of a regal gentleman upholding honor and dignity. Yet, behind his facade lies a deviant beast, who felt entitled to everything he may lay his gaze upon. He kept his greatest prize locked in the highest room of his household, a mere child by the name of Johanna. Such a sweet and innocent girl, Bamford had felt he should be the one to deflower her, yet Turpin had strictly forbidden it when he had attempted so, much to his great chagrin. Now she withers away, alone and desperate, with singing birds as her only consolation.

 _At least she was in despair_ , the Beadle thought to himself gleefully.

Yesterday was quite the troubling day for the honorable judge. A hot-blooded sailor had attempted to woo dearest Johanna away with him from her window. Turpin caught the scoundrel in the act, and had Bamford lash the boy along back with his favored extendable cane which previously belonged to his mother. He learned his technique from the lashings she used to give him, and now vents his unending rage against all those who have the unfortunate misery of crossing Judge Turpin's path.

However, no such beatings shall occur today. The Beadle had been promised a day off from his usual bullying pastimes, and he planned to spend it wisely. He had heard of a barber that operates within the nearby market square, who is said to be the best of his craft in all of England. He was an Italian, by the name of Adolfo Pirelli. Bamford was anxious to observe his talents first-hand, and perhaps put them to good use for a leisurely shave.

He emerged from his flat into the moist outdoor air with his signature top hat and antique cane, sniffed a dash of cocaine from his little container, and strolled along the walkway towards his destination.

Along the way, the Beadle glanced at a silly-looking whore leaning against a building, raising her eyebrows suggestively at him. Ordinarily he would indulge himself in the abusive pleasures the prostitute offered, but today was to be different. Bamford turned up his nose, sneering at the woman, and continued his journey, indifferent to the slurs she shouted at him behind his back. Opinions from the likes of her rarely bothered Bamford, for he was a man of a grander social standing. A snap of his fingers, and the whore would be rotting in Bedlam, never to feel the warmth of the sun for the rest of her remaining lifespan.

 _It was good to have power_ , thought the Beadle.

At long last, he had arrived at the marketplace. The usual bustling and business which so often took up residence in the area had all but suspiciously dispersed, and only a single man remained standing on the grandest of stages in the middle of the district. The man was gaunt and sullen, hunched over forward, clutching tightly to a woman's reticule in his hand. His most notable feature was his hair, black as the night except for a single lock which was bleached as white as the moon. The Beadle scanned the stranger up and down. For an unknown reason, this wraith-like fellow was known to him, yet he could not place his face. At long last, Bamford discovered a razor strapped to the man's hip, clearly forged from the finest silver.

 _This must be the impressive barber whose name consistently crosses my ears_

His haggard appearance was disturbing, as he did not appear as extravagant as any of the preceding tales of his features had boasted. Nonetheless, this man was the only person in sight, so it would be best to ask his identity.

The Beadle waved his cane firmly in the air in an attempt to catch the barber's attention. "You there! Are you the famed barber who is spoken of in such high regard? Pirelli, I presume?"

The barber did not move from his stance, stiff as a statue.

 _Perhaps he did not hear me._

Bamford approached the man on the stage and looked into his eyes, yet still he did not budge. The Beadle thought it necessary to give him a gentle jolt with the tap of his cane to reawaken his senses. With such an action, the barber sprung to life, and glared down at Bamford with a look to make rats scuttle.

"Barnabilius Bamford! Do you recognize the face of the man whose wife you had abducted so many years ago?" The barber boomed with the voice of a god. The Beadle was stunned by his surprising change in tone.

Who was this man? What was he babbling about? Instead of asking such pivotal questions like a reasonable gentleman, Bamford's first instinct was to threaten.

"I'll have you know that I personally represent the law! If you refuse to submit to me you shall be forcefully ejected."

The barber merely laughed at the Beadle's lackluster warning. Bamford was completely muddled at this ridiculous man. What was it had wrought upon him? Then it clicked. His eyes widened as he ultimately remembered the identity of this man.

His name was Benjamin Barker, and Bamford had imprisoned him in an Australian penal colony exactly fifteen years ago. He was a barber, who owned a shop on Fleet Street, where he lived with his beloved wife and child. Turpin lusted after Barker's wife, Lucy, who was driven insane after a gruesome assault orchestrated by the Judge. Soon after, Turpin confiscated his daughter, who is now known as Johanna.

 _Has Barker come to claim vengeance after all these years?_

The Beadle's worried expression shifted fiercely to a violent scowl, as he extended his cane menacingly.

"If you wish to take your revenge, then have at thee!"

Benjamin Barker cackled madly, and waved his finger back and forth at Bamford.

"Oh no, foolish Beadle. I have something far more enduring in mind for your punishment."

This statement puzzled the dim-witted Beadle.

"What is this nonsense you speak of?"

Barker lifted up his reticule, and plucked a single stone from inside. The stone glowed a brilliant red gleam, resembling a fresh bout of blood pouring from a slit throat. He grinned a baleful grin, standing high above Bamford upon his platform.

"You clearly value power above all else in this miserable world. Now, you shall know how it feels to be devoid of all strength, to be a maggot crushed by the soles of the deities!"

The Beadle now began to feel the detrimental fear Barker had imposed on him.

 _This lunacy surely cannot be believed_ , he thought unconvincingly.

With nary a moment's hesitation, Benjamin Barker lobbed the blood-stone at Beadle Bamford with spectacular agility, throwing it right at his forehead. He closed his eyes in dreaded anticipation of his ultimate fate.

However, Bamford felt no impact from the force. When he had opened his eyes once more, he could see nothing but a bright white blaze. It was as if he was staring into a blank piece of paper, untarnished by ink. A single shout of frustrated anger was heard in the far distance, as Bamford suddenly felt his body being hurled into a far distance by an unknown grip. His head spinned and his body ached with weariness from the dynamic launch. The Beadle's consciousness had begun to fade, until the white light fizzled out, leaving behind nothing but complete darkness.


End file.
